Midnight Math
by Aeidhryn
Summary: The similarities and differences between two insomniacs. Featuring Dr. Montague of episode 3x12, Bloodhounds. Oneshot. Concrit welcomed. Unbeta'd.


Disclaimer: I don't do drugs. Sorry.

There has to be some factor she's missed. Something. Whatever it is, she'll find it eventually. If she keeps looking hard enough.

Dr. Meredith Montague stares at her computer, then shakes her head and enters the data one more time, just in case she'd accidentally mixed up some numbers. No such luck—

though, then again, she doesn't believe in luck.

Outside, the wind howls and thunder rolls theatrically. A lesser woman would scowl at the rain dripping down the window beyond the slowly decomposing, half-empty box of Thai takeout. She contents herself with lifting an eyebrow at it—as if that will do any good.

She just can't ignore a slight loneliness bothering her in the back of her mind. It's all that consultant's fault anyway—jewelry, and a date! What was she thinking?

She enters a different set of numbers. They work. What is it about this set?

Maybe she should have stuck with Agent Rigsby. After all, he was kind of cute.

She shakes her head again, to clear it. _You're focusing on the wrong thing, Meredith. The numbers. The answer is in the numbers. You just have to find it. The numbers…_

The numbers. If there's always an answer in the numbers, why can't there be an answer for this problem in the numbers? She has all the percentages on relationship factors; why doesn't she just combine them into one equation?

Fired by the sudden idea, she grabs a pen and jots down the notes for her survey questions, then dials the first guinea pig she can think of.

"Patrick Jane? I just have a couple of questions."

"Uh, yes. Is it one in the morning, or is it just me?"

"Sorry, never mind," she says with a bright smile. After hanging up, the smile melts right off like an ice cube dropped in lava.

"People skills," she mutters to herself. "Always botching the people skills."

Her phone rings. She doesn't have to look at the caller ID. She picks it up, with a genuine smile this time.

"Mr. Jane. It's one in the morning."

"And I'm an insomniac."

"You are?" She makes a note. "And what would you say is the cause of this sleeplessness?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why are you sleepless?"

On the other end of the phone, Jane scratches his head and gets up.

"Why are you sleepless, Dr. Miss Montague?"

"Because I'm interviewing you."

"Which begs the question: why are you interviewing me?"

She can _feel_ herself blushing. _Stupid. Should have anticipated that._

"I'm conducting a survey."

"On?"

PEOPLE SKILLS, she writes in large, square letters at the top of her notebook.

"Ah, men." It's not a dishonest answer.

"Ah." He walks downstairs. "This is about Rigsby, isn't it?"

Yes. No. "I suppose you could say that."

She adds an exclamation point next to the PEOPLE SKILLS, then erases it with a frown. Exclamation points are for texting teenagers, not for professional personal memos. There is hard data that suggests that multiple exclamation points…

"Anyone there?"

"Sorry." She settles for underlining it instead.

"You should really get some sleep," he says, turning on the hot water.

"I'm not tired."

"Yes you are." He ruffles through the tea bags. Green? Earl Grey?

She gives a little laugh. "Mr. Jane, I'm in a better position to judge that than you are."

"Meredith—can I call you Meredith?"

_Yes—I mean, __**no.**_

Thankfully, he doesn't pause for a reply.

"Meredith, the reason you're awake at this time of the night is because you're a conflicted, lonely woman. The encounter with Rigsby made you think about your love life, and you realize with some surprise that it's nearly nonexistent. So instead of working on the actual problem, you turn to your numbers to give you the answer. The numbers aren't always going to give you the answer. Criminology, well, you're going to come up with a proper equation sometime, but staying up till one o'clock in the morning isn't going to help you."

"You think that last statement was a lie, don't you?"

"Did you just accuse me of being a liar? People skills," he grins.

"There was a 90% chance you were lying."

"Did you know there's a 95% chance people will believe any statistic they're told, even with no proof backing it whatsoever?"

_Ha. _"You used to tell people what they wanted to hear."

"Yes, I did. You looked me up."

"You already knew that." _And according to the numbers on men like you, there's going to be a load of trouble awaiting you when you find that man Red John—I hope giving you the numbers wasn't a mistake. _She toys with the idea of putting his numbers in to see if he's a psycho, then pushes it aside. You'd need more data for that kind of thing, and to be honest, she doesn't really feel like it tonight.

"It was nice talking to you, Mr. Jane."

"Patrick."

_No, __**Mr. Jane**__. _"Good night."

"Bye now."

She sets the phone down, and stares at it for a minute. Then she turns off the kitchen light and goes to bed. Once there, she discovers that he was right; she really is tired. The rain is now soothing, rather than infuriating. In no time at all, she falls asleep.

After a minute of thinking, he goes and gets her report on Red John, and starts to re-read it for the fourth time. Then he gets another idea, and begins cross-checking it against Bosco's papers. The hot water comes to a boil, sits in the heater, cools. The tea is left lying on the counter.

There has to be some clue he's missed. Something. Whatever it is, he'll find it eventually. If he keeps looking hard enough.


End file.
